


Benigne

by tinx_r



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 09:56:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2808287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinx_r/pseuds/tinx_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saying no to Peter was something one became accustomed to...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Benigne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox/gifts).



> To my dear recipient, thank you for your prompt. It struck me that Miss Sayers had dealt with the matter rather better than I might within Gaudy Night, so this story takes place during the early part of this book - after the Gaudy and before Harriet's return to Oxford. I trust this offering goes some way toward fulfilling your wish. Happy Yule!

>   
> _She had begun to take Wimsey for granted, as one might take dynamite for granted in a munitions factory. But the discovery that the mere sound of his name still had the power to provoke such explosions in herself--that she could so passionately resent, at one and the same time, either praise or blame of him on other people's lips--awakened a misgiving that dynamite was perhaps still dynamite, however harmless it might come to look through long custom._ ~ Gaudy Night

Saying no to Peter was something one became accustomed to, Harriet thought, as she placed the finishing touches to her toilette in front of the mirror in Mecklenburg Square. His latest epistle lay on top of the dressing table, brief and to the point. Her answer had gone already via the post, but the memory of the Egotists' Club nagged at her conscience.

A heart and a brain, and ever-present conflict. There it lay; a dilemma she could not answer. She told him no; yet his heart refused to hear her. But she would not say such words as must make his brain take notice -- she would not send him packing, even though the means lay in her palm. 

And when he had stumbled upon the vile correspondence -- when he had indeed offered to withdraw his suit, his presence, his heart and his brain -- she would have none of it.

She would not have him wiped out by anyone, least of all her own hand. There, that was the heart of it -- the very centre. As much as she refused his suit, that was her right, and she would exercise it _ad infinitum_. 

"Damn it," exclaimed Miss Vane. Thus consigning his lordship to his proper place, she turned from the mirror, picked up her bag and proceeded to a dispiriting play in company with the friend who had recently accompanied her through Europe. It wholly failed to divert her mind, and she was positively snappish over supper.

"Ah," said the friend, with an interested eyebrow. "Has he proposed again, or has he failed to do so?"

Harriet pressed her lips together and sampled her salmon. It was under-seasoned and over-cooked. Swallowing it down nonetheless, she nodded toward the far side of the restaurant. "Isn't that the new actress? Celia Gaffrey?"

"Shirley Godfrey, and no, I don't believe it is." The friend's eyes glinted with amusement. "My dear Harriet, you may tell me to go the devil if you wish. It makes no odds to me. But really, when a woman says no and a man does not listen -- well there are words for that, and most of them are not pretty."

Harriet looked up sharply, and pushed away her fish. "I have always found Lord Peter an extremely good listener," she said coolly. "It is a rare quality in this day and age."

Her friend did not have even the grace to look abashed, instead laughing heartily. "Put your claws away, my dear. I have listened too well, and that is what troubles you. Come, we will talk of Miss Godfrey and her shocking new play."

But Harriet found the gossip as insipid as the earlier performance, and flounced home earlier than usual, her nose firmly out of joint.

She would have fumed all night, but a niggling voice in her head would not allow it, reminding her of a time when Peter's regular missive had not come, and her own dismay at its absence. It really would not do, but she could see no way out.

Instead, she sipped hot cocoa and turned her attention to Wilfrid. Her favourite detective had been behaving with great tiresomeness lately, and even his polished charm, usually a balm to her soul, filled her with the desire to slap him six ways from Sunday.

I believe I am in danger of becoming as bitter as Miss Hillyard, Harriet thought ruefully, putting away her manuscripts. Wilfrid, no doubt, was rebelling against his recent editing, and hence had no desire to turn to and solve another case for his creator. It was most trying, indeed, how one's characters failed to follow their allotted pathways.

Harriet frowned, pondering the vagaries of Wilfrid. Really, the chap had no business ignoring evidence and taking off to the continent, just when one wanted him. The letter was postmarked Rome, but one never knew, with Peter, whether Rome meant Rome, or Amsterdam, or somewhere strange and exotic and, of course, filled with danger.

Harriet gave a start and spilled the dregs of her cocoa over her manuscript. Hastily blotting with tissues, she swore heartily, first at Wilfrid, and then at Peter for somehow hijacking her sitting room, her authorial peace, and now, for heaven's sake, Wilfrid's motives - dubious at the best of times.

It really would not do at all.

Harriet picked up Peter's letter and tossed it, envelope and all, into the fire. That took care of one problem. She was sorely tempted to toss the manuscript in the wake of the letter, but her publisher was waiting and one's rent did not pay itself. With a sigh, she wiped off the remaining stains and set the pages to dry as best they might.

Tomorrow, she would sort out Wilfrid. As for Peter, he was a problem for another day.

Harriet dashed off a note to her friend, thanking her for a delightful evening, and put it aside to send the next day. There was some humour to be found in the situation, she supposed, and there was no reason to spoil a perfectly good friendship over Peter's ubiquitous proposals. They were, after all, between Peter and herself, and the error had been mentioning them in the first place.

She would tell him no as often as she wished, and that would be an end of it. 

Harriet took a quick turn about the room, sending a glance at the fireplace. Rather foolish to have burned the letter -- there had been no return address, but still, should one need to find Peter, it would have been a place to start. She supposed the Foreign Office could usually put their finger upon him, in a pinch.

She gave herself a shake, and took herself off to her bedroom. She had no need of Peter, and he would, as always, return soon enough. 

And if she dreamed of him that night, well, that was a matter between her and her pillow, and no word of it would ever pass her lips.


End file.
